


Like Father, Like Son

by endstiel



Series: Like Father, Like Son 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depictions of Violence (between main pairing), Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hate Sex, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John Winchester Being an Asshole, M/M, References to Past Manslaughter (off screen), Underage Drinking, minor character death (off screen)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2289290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endstiel/pseuds/endstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel started living with his uncle Bobby when he was seven. For years, John Winchester would visit with stories and gifts. But when John dies Cas meets his two neglected sons and realizes his childhood might not have been as magical as he thought...</p><p>
<b>This fic is currently unfinished. I would like to finish it at some point, but for now, it remains a work in progress. I just don't have the time to complete it, but hopefully I might soon.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic turned out to be a lot more angsty than I originally intended (so heed the warnings in the tags), but while it's angsty, there is also a fairly happy and hopeful ending, so don't worry-- no matter how depressing it may get, it'll get better.
> 
> Also I want to say thank you to [endversecas](http://endversecas.tumblr.com/) for helping me out with the laws and proceedings that go along with wills and estates.
> 
> This is unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own.

Castiel remembers his childhood in the way someone recalls a dream. 

He thinks of those lazy summers and the smell of warm apple pie fresh out of the oven and he smiles. 

He thinks of silly cartoons and playing hide-and-seek around his uncle’s salvage yard and he laughs. 

But his fondest memory, the one that makes him close his eyes and yearn for the past, is that of a shiny black impala pulling into the driveway. 

At the time, Castiel was sure the car was magical. It always seemed like a beast, a beautiful creature that growled and flew on the pavement like a panther, always on the hunt for danger and adventure, and only tamed by it’s driver: John Winchester. 

To seven-year-old Castiel, John Winchester was a god. He was a hero that battled monsters with his own bare hands, he was an explorer who ventured far and wide throughout the galaxy, and he was a magician appearing in Castiel’s life with gifts and treasure, then disappearing just as quickly as he came. 

 

The first time he met John Winchester was shortly after his parents died and he was sent to live with his uncle Bobby Singer at his salvage yard in a strange land called Sioux Falls. The first couple months were quiet and slightly awkward with him and his uncle dancing around each other, trying to get used to each other’s company. But one day Bobby announced they would be having a visitor: his old friend he called John. 

Castiel was nervous when John pulled up in his shiny monster of a car, and even more so when the man stepped out in a beaten leather jacket and a cigarette hanging from his lips. 

But the minute he looked down at Castiel and smiled, handing him a pack of skittles before saying, “Bobby told me he had a little nephew running around. Thought you might like a treat, kid,” Castiel believed the man was God himself. 

The rest of the night was spent with John telling Bobby and Castiel about his travels and adventures. He spoke of all the fights he won and all the damsels in distress he rescued and all the glory and gold earned for his daring and strength. 

When John Winchester left the next day, Castiel asked and asked his uncle when John would come back. Bobby just shrugged and said, “Hell would I know?” 

 

John Winchester, the famous explorer and daring hero, returned a few months later. This time, unannounced. He came with gifts, with strange and delicious food, and with stories. 

The three sat in Bobby’s kitchen, both men with some magical drink called beer and Castiel with juice, as John would tell more tales of danger and triumph and Castiel could feel his eyes widen in amazement that someone could have such adventures. When he grew up, he wanted to have adventures just like that. 

Once again, John Winchester left the next day, promising Castiel he would come back to share his stories. 

 

Just like he promised, he did return. But while his visits came often, they were mostly sporadic and short-lived. Castiel would never know when the man would show up, but when he heard the impala pulling into the drive, his spirits would immediately leap, knowing John would bring stories and gifts along with him. 

In July, John brought Castiel a box of toy soldiers and a story about him meeting a magician in New Orleans.  

A few weeks later, he returned to tell the story of how he tamed the wild beast he drove, laughing as Castiel stuffed his face with the candy he brought. 

In September, he handed Castiel an old copy of Slaughterhouse-Five, which Castiel flipped through excitedly before setting down to listen as John told a story of him battling a demon. 

‘The son of a bitch was shitfaced—’ Castiel remembered him saying, laughing as him and Bobby sipped from their beers. 

‘What does ‘shitfaced’ mean, sir?’ 

John coughed then, ‘it means, uh, to be—possessed. The guy was a demon, a fucking monster.’ 

‘And after you staved him off with a broken bottle of whiskey, did you kill him?’ he asked, sitting at the edge of his seat, wondering what would happen next. He didn’t understand then, why John looked away, swallowing a little. Maybe his throat was dry or something. 

John didn’t come back for a few months after that, but a little before Christmas he returned, once again with a gift and a story. 

This time the gift was wrapped in old newspaper and as Castiel ripped it apart eagerly, a small golden amulet fell into his palm.  

‘It’s a necklace. For you, kid,’ John said, smiling, and Castiel’s eyes began to water. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s wrong?’ 

‘Nothing,’ he tried to say, his voice quivering. ‘It’s just— thank you. For everything. You’re like the father I never knew and I’m so thankful. For not just the gifts or your stories, but for everything. I never knew my own dad, but I think he would have been just as brave and kind as you.’ 

And Castiel never understood why John looked so guilty then.  

He never understood why John didn’t reply or why he left soon after. 

Until now. 

 

Now, eleven years later, he is standing at front of a casket as Pastor Murphy recites a speech that’s probably branded into his memory with certain names and words (‘John Winchester,’ ‘beloved father and friend,’ …) amended for this specific funeral.

And as the pastor speaks, Castiel looks around. 

There’s only a small handful of people, maybe even less than a handful. The group just consists of himself, Uncle Bobby, and two other boys with clenched jaws and wrinkled shirts. 

Castiel has no idea who they are and he looks away to mourn in silence.

It’s then that the pastor asks Dean, the elder of the two boys to say a few words, that Castiel realizes.

“My father was a fucking asshole,” the boy begins, and if Castiel’s childhood was like a dream, then this is him finally waking up.

Wait.

Since when did John have two sons? 

Since when did he have a family, a whole entire secret life Castiel didn’t know about? He never mentioned—

“My father was a violent drunk…” 

All the stories of fighting monsters. They weren’t about monsters, were they?

“My father was a deadbeat who was never home…”

All the times John was away, ‘exploring’ the world or telling tales to Castiel, he was neglecting two sons at home. All that time, he thought he knew John, he thought of John as a father, but he really had no idea who he was. 

“So why the _fuck_ are you crying?” Dean asks, and Castiel glances up like a dear in headlights to see Dean glaring at him, fire burning in his eyes. “And more importantly, who the fuck are you? John had no friends, me and Sammy here were his only family. What business do you have here, crying over his grave like he was some sort of goddamn saint?”

And Castiel gapes at Dean, his throat closing up and any words or coherent thoughts vanishing as he stares into the other boy’s eyes. 

He’s speechless. Confused. Terrified. Disappointed.

“Well?”

Castiel finally remembers to breathe, glancing away from Dean’s heated gaze as he answers, his voice cracked and small. “I, uh. John was...like a father to me?”

“Like hell he was,” Dean screams and the last thing Castiel remembers is a sharp pain against his cheek before his world goes black.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Castiel wakes up, he’s laying on his uncle’s couch, his cheek sore and head pounding, as angry voices drift from the kitchen.

“I don’t fucking care, Bobby,” a voice Castiel recognizes as Dean’s growls. “Sam and I are not staying here with that son of a bitch.”

Castiel’s stomach drops. 

“Really? Because it seems to me that you have no where else to go.”

Silence.

“Just stay here. It’ll only be for a couple months. You can work here at the salvage yard while Sam finishes up freshmen year, and once you’ve got enough saved, you boys can find your own place. Until then, you’ll have to put up with Cas. Just promise not to kill him, Dean.”

“Can’t promise anything. The kid thinks my father was some sort of fairy godmother,” Dean spits and the sound of the door slams, announcing his departure. 

Once the atmosphere settles slightly, Castiel makes his way slowly into the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge before taking a seat across Bobby. The two sit in silence for a while, with Castiel nursing his beer and Bobby eyeing his uneasily, before Castiel finally gains the courage to speak, his words coming out bitter and dry with a tinge of something like hurt.

“So, everything I knew— er, _thought_ I knew about John was a lie? All the times he came here to ‘visit’, he was just hiding from tax collectors or the police or— or his own fucking kids? And all the gifts and the stories, he was just pretending to be a good father to someone, wasn’t he? He just wanted to feel like he was doing one thing right?”

Bobby just stares in silence.

“My whole childhood— my idol since I was seven, he was just some asshole who hated his kids and got into too many bar fights? And this whole time I thought he was a hero, exploring the world and hunting monsters…” Castiel glances back at the screen door before taking a swig of beer.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, kid,” Bobby finally says. “I should have told you. But, it’s just, you thought the world of him. I didn’t want to break that illusion.”

“Yeah, well. My _illusion_ was stolen from those boys, Bobby. I stole their childhood. I’m the reason their dad was always away, I’m the reason their dad didn’t care for them in the way a dad should. All those gifts, all those stories—”

“Don’t be a goddamn idjit, boy. Even you know, whether he had been here with you or not, John still would have been an asshole. He still would have neglected those boys and he still would have—”

Castiel shakes his head again. “Still, his son, Dean, thinks it’s all my fault. He hates me, Bobby. There’s no way to apologize. There’s no way to make this right. Moreover, how can I even apologize for stealing someone’s childhood, when I wasn’t even aware of what I was doing?”

Bobby’s silent.

He doesn’t know the answer either.

There’s no fixing this. 

 

Castiel doesn’t see Dean for the rest of the week.

The only evidence that he’s actually still here is the loud rock music that blares from his and his brother’s shared bedroom and the extra dishes Castiel cleans every day.

Sam, on the other hand, Castiel sees frequently through out the day.

The fourteen-year-old is quiet and skids around Castiel nervously, but he’s polite all the same, saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ more than anything.

The most he says to Castiel is a few days after when he comes to apologize after dinner. 

He’s cleaning dishes and Sam approaches him quietly, clearing his throat to gain Castiel’s attention.

“Listen, I— I wanted to apologize,” Sam says, staring at his feet. “For my brother, mostly. Dad’s death was— it was really hard on us all and Dean shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I guess, he somehow blames you for the way Dad treated us, and I wanted you to know that I don’t think that. I don’t think you knew and I don’t blame you.”

Castiel stands there frozen, unsure of what to say.

“So, I guess, what I’m saying is. If Dean says or does anything to hurt you, don’t believe him and just come to me, because I’ll tell him to stop. Dean is hurt, but he shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“Uh,” Castiel says, but Sam leaves before he can properly thank him.

 

The following Monday is when Sam starts his first day at Washington High School.

Before that, him and Dean went to Roosevelt about twenty minutes south, but after John’s death, Dean dropped out to get his G.E.D and a paying job, and both boys moved to stay with Bobby, thus making Sam change schools in the process.

Sam tells Castiel all of this, of course, as they walk to school together that morning.

“I told Dean he should at least stay a few months longer and finish senior year, but he was adamant that a job was waiting for him at Bobby’s, so we moved,” Sam says, shaking his head. “I don’t think he counted on you being there, though.”

Castiel nods slowly, unsure of what to say, but thankfully, Sam’s gift of talking at the speed of light allows him not to say anything as Sam bounces from topic to topic.

He talks about his brother, his favorite classes, he asks about the extra-curricular programs WHS has to offer, and a dozen more topics Castiel can’t remember for the life of him, but despite this, he finds Sam’s company to be pleasant, if not a great relief.

After his first run-in with Dean, Castiel was nervous to be around both boys, worrying that the youngest Winchester would be just as bitter and violent as his older brother. But Sam has proved himself to be forgiving and kind, willing to see past flaws and unintentional mistakes. And for that, Castiel is greatly thankful.

Once they arrive at the school, Castiel shows him around to his different classes and introduces him to different teachers and students they see walking around. And later, when Sam finds him at lunch to sit down and talk some more during their free period, Castiel believes that maybe he has the chance at not only redemption, but also friendship.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sam helps Castiel with dinner that night.

He stirs the boiling pot of spaghetti while Cas makes homemade marinara sauce from the recipe book he got on his ninth birthday (from John nonetheless, but he’s already ripped out the title page with the note saying _‘Happy Birthday, Cas. Love, John’_ ).

Both boys set the table together, three places— one for Sam, one for Bobby, and one for Cas. They don’t set a place for Dean. According to Sam, he’s elsewhere and would once again not be joining them for dinner (or breakfast, or lunch).

They eat in silence, counting down the minutes as forks clang against ceramic bowls and bottles of beer empty themselves. 

About halfway through, the familiar growl of an engine interrupts the silence and is followed by the loud slam of the car door as it opens and closes. Years ago, Castiel would have believed it was the sound of adventure and presents. Now, it’s a brutal reminder of the childhood he stole and the current driver who hates him.

Dean enters moments later, not glancing at Cas in the slightest, but murmuring ‘hellos’ to both Bobby and Sam. 

“Are you hungry, Dean? We left some spaghetti in the pot for you,” Sam says, but Dean just shakes his head.

“‘m fine, Sam. Already ate,” he says, and while his voice is dry and tired, his words are slurred and rounded at the edges.

“Whiskey and pot doesn’t count as eating, Dean.”

Dean mumbles something in reply and heads upstairs anyway.

No one eats for moments after, until the thumping of Dean’s boots on the wooden stairs die down and the bedroom door slams once leaving only silence in it’s wake.

“I better bring Dean a bowl before he passes out or something,” Sam mumbles before filling up a bowl of pasta and scurrying upstairs.

Castiel is about to relax in the silence after the second departure, but Bobby has other ideas. 

“I need’a talk to you about something, boy,” he says gruffly, but quietly, as though he were afraid of anyone else hearing his words. And in a house like this, with thin wooden floors and walls, it wouldn’t be that difficult either. “But I had to wait until them boys were out of earshot before I told you, and now’s a good time as any.”

Castiel just looks at his uncle.

And Bobby sighs.

“The will,” he says by explanation.

“The will?”

Bobby nods. “In his will, John named me the executor of his estate. I’ve read the original will, and—”

A moment passes and Bobby glances at the stairs guiltily before Castiel urges him on, wondering why such an issue was so touchy. “And?”

“I’ve read what it says. Who all the beneficiaries are, what they get— all of it. And let me tell you, boy, it ain’t good. If you think Dean hates you now, he’ll probably actually kill you after he finds out. And Sam…” he trails off.

Castiel furrows his brow. If this means what he thinks it means… then _fuck_.

He thinks of Sam.

How things were just looking up for them. How Sam didn’t blame him for his crimes. How they were actually becoming friends despite everything. 

And now, it’s all over.

Sam will hate him too, like Dean.

And Dean.

He thinks of Dean.

How he stole his childhood memories in life— being an unknowing son to his father, while Dean stayed home waiting, wondering when his dad would return.

How now, he’ll steal from Dean in death, too.

Fuck.

There’s no fixing this. There’s no redemption or forgiveness. 

And Castiel was foolish to think there might have been.

“I’ll have to file the will with the probate court tomorrow. It’ll take a while to process, but John didn’t have much, so probably just a couple months to a year before it’s officially executed. I haven’t told the boys yet. I don’t know how.”

Castiel glances at the staircase, the hum of the brothers’ talking drifting down wooden steps.

He doesn’t know either.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so so so sorry for the delay; a bunch of stuff happened and I wasn't able to write. But the good news is that I've planned the remainder of this fic (hence, the updated rating and tags— so please heed the warnings) so if you're worried that I won't finish this, never fear because I always finish what I start :)
> 
> Hopefully I'll be able to update more frequently, but until then, here's the latest chapter.  
> I haven't gotten the chance to reread it yet, so there might be a couple mistakes here and there— sorry about that

Bobby says the will should take months to process and Castiel decides to stay away from the brothers for good. If he ends up taking more from them than he already has, he doesn’t want to make it worse by getting close. 

Sam tries to help him with dinner and talk to him while they go to school, but Castiel keeps their interactions short and sporadic. He’s still polite, of course, but the last thing he wants is to get too close to Sam and see his face when he takes everything away from his friend.

Dean is easier in that sense.

The elder Winchester already hates him. He has no wish to befriend Castiel or forgive him of his crimes, and thus, keeping his distance is easier.

Or, at least, as easy as it will ever be.

He still feels the warmth leave the atmosphere when Dean enters the same room, and his stomach still drops when he hears the vibrations of his loud music beating through the walls.

Dean’s angry presence is always there, always reminding him, and he can’t complain. This is what he deserves.

 

And weeks pass like this— avoiding Sam and staying out of Dean’s way. It’s hard not having a friend to sit with at lunch now, and it’s lonely making excuse after excuse to miss dinner so the brothers and Bobby can have time to sit and eat together. Castiel feels like a ghost living in his own home, but he tells himself it’s better this way. So long as he stays away, the damage he’ll cause won’t be as disastrous from a distance. 

But his plans don’t work as smoothly as he hoped and despite his attempts at distance, Sam keeps coming close, not letting his new friend break away that easily.

He tries to walk with Cas to school, but Cas leaves early. He tries to talk to him during the classes they share, but Cas is always quick to find some excuse to get away. And it’s only a matter of time before Castiel finds himself truly cornered.

It’s his fault, really. After he makes his daily get-away at 6 o’clock to run up stairs and hide in his room until suppertime is over, he always makes sure to lock the door— so no one can come in and he’s not tempted to go out. But this time he forgot and Sam follows him in, standing in the doorway and blocking the only exit.

“Cas? Aren’t you coming for supper?”

Castiel just shakes his head.

“Are you sure? I could bring you something up.”

“No thanks.”

Sam opens his mouth, but nothing comes out and the boys feel the room flood with silence, drowning them.

Finally, it’s Sam who speaks again. 

“Cas?” he asks again, his voice soft and almost vulnerable. “I-I feel like I haven’t seen you around much. Are you alright?”

He can’t bring himself to speak again so he just nods as the pit in his stomach deepens.

“Are you sure? Because I kind of feel like you’ve been avoiding me,” Sam laughs, but it seems more forced and agitated than genuine.

Cas just shakes his head again. He doesn’t want to make himself say it, not to his friend, but it’s the only way. The only way he can make Sam understand.

Before his throat can close up anymore, and before the pressure behind his eyes pushes tears, he breathes out the words. But he barely gets out a ‘we can’t, Sam—’ before choking.

“What do you mean?”

He sighs, running a hand down his face and whispers, “We can’t— be friends.”

“Why?” Sam asks, wrinkling his nose in confusion.

“Just— trust me, Sam. It’s better this way. You’ll hate me and I don’t want you to, so please— just— leave me alone. We can’t do this— _I_ can’t do this to you.”

“Cas—”

“Go,” he chokes, not meeting Sam’s concerned stare. “ _Go_.”

That same flooding silence returns and Castiel can’t breath. He’s sinking; he can’t swim. He bites the inside of his cheek, and wrinkles his nose to dull the harrowing tingle, and finally, after what seems like hours, Sam nods and closes the door silently behind him.

 

Later that night, after he’s sure everyone’s asleep, Castiel creeps down to eat supper by himself. This has been apart of his routine since he started avoiding the brothers— skipping meals and sneaking down later for the leftovers, if there are any.

But as he tip-toes down the hall to the stairs, he hears the vague murmuring of voices behind one of the bedroom doors— _Dean’s_ door.

Normally, he wouldn’t have stopped— it’s not his business and therefore, shouldn’t eavesdrop on a conversation that hadn’t been intended for his ears— but the moment he hears his name, his feet seem to stop in place as he strains to hear more.

“I just don’t understand,” he hears Sam’s voice say. “We were beginning to be friends. I just don’t get how he’d change so suddenly.”

Someone scoffs. The voice is unfamiliar in that he hasn’t heard it as frequently as Sam or Bobby, but he can still identify its owner just as easily. “There’s nothing to ‘ _get_ ,’” Dean replies. “The guy’s an asshole and it was only a matter of time before he fucked up again.”

“No, Dean. Cas isn’t an asshole, he just—”

“Really? Because he played a hand in fucking up our childhood. He’s the reason Dad was always gone so don’t—”

“Just shut up for a second, Dean,” Sam snaps. “Look at Cas— he’s just as confused and scared as we are. He understands what we’re going through and he’s tried his best to help us— yes, even you, Dean. So that’s why I can’t understand why Cas would do this. Why would he distance himself so randomly? H-he’s my friend.”

Neither boy says anything for a moment and the only sound that escapes through the door is a quiet sniffle.

As Castiel turns back to his own bedroom, Deans voice rings in his hears as he whispers, “I’m sorry, Sammy. I’m sorry.”

And it’s then, when Castiel shuts the door behind him— silencing the voices from the hall— that he breaks down.

He falls to his knees, bruising them on the hard wooden floor and gasps for air he so desperately needs, but it doesn’t reach his lungs, instead catching somewhere in his throat and he coughs it out in the form of a strangled cry.

There’s no redemption for the turmoil he brings.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel is given the keys in May, the day of graduation.

He accepts his diploma and surveys the crowd before him in search of Bobby’s face. Instead, he catches a glimpse of shaggy brown hair and brown eyes. 

He’s almost surprised to see Sam there— the two haven’t really spoken since Cas pushed him away months ago— but then again, Sam’s always been unconditionally loyal and kind to him, even though he doesn’t deserve it.

Guilt begins curdle in his stomach and he forces himself to look away.

He smiles at the principal. 

Takes his diploma. 

And his tassels. 

And finally, exits stage left.

But as he descends the small staircase to the side of the stage, Castiel can’t help but glance back into the crowd, trying to find his almost-friend again.

Unfortunately though (or maybe fortunately for Castiel’s conscience), Sam is lost in the sea of heads and Castiel knows he won’t find him again.

He sighs, resigned to returning to his seat among his other classmates and waits out the rest of the ceremony, going through the motions on auto-pilot.

 

Castiel doesn’t see Sam again after all the graduates are dismissed and allowed to return to their families. But then again, he’s not surprised. He told Sam to stay away. And while he was still kind enough to come, Sam wouldn’t directly disobey Castiel and approach him unwanted.

Still, part of him hurts knowing Sam was there to support him, but didn’t stay long enough to see him any longer than a glimpse.

 

The ride home is quiet.

Bobby gruffly suggests they have a family dinner together, which Castiel greatly appreciates— until he remembers that ‘family’ also includes Sam and Dean. And just thinking about spending dinner among the two brothers Castiel’s been avoiding for the past few months only brings back the nausea from before.

He nods, not wanting to hurt his uncle’s feelings, and wipes his clammy palms on the thighs of his jeans.

 

Dinner is a strange affair; ‘strange’ putting it lightly.

They all enter at different times, and sit and wait quietly until everyone shows up.

Dean is the last one to come, and he plops down at the table, about to eat, before Bobby scolds him.

They say grace, but after the ‘amen’ no one bothers to move.

Castiel wrings his hands nervously, and glances at his uncle.

Bobby seems just as agitated, though Castiel can’t imagine why— he’s the one who suggested this dinner. 

“So, why the hell are we here again?” Dean mutters. 

Sam nudges him in the ribs. 

Bobby shakes his head.

And all four men return to sitting in silence, beer bottles and unwrapped McDonald’s burgers sitting untouched on the table.

“I, uh, have something I need to talk with you boys about,” Bobby says finally, and they grunt in return, no one bothering to speak. “I’ve been worried— I mean, I should have brought it up earlier, but I just—”

“What is it, Bobby?” Sam asks, voice innocent and curious— a stark and somewhat relieving contrast to that of his brother’s perpetual rage.

His uncle sighs, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes.

“I don’t know how to say this without fucking up everything,” he says, his voice, normally gruff and blunt, now bordering hesitant guilt and fear. “I should have told you earlier. I just didn’t know how…” he trails off a moment, clearing his throat before speaking again. “Y’all know I’m the executioner of John’s estate, so I know who the beneficiaries are and I’m in charge of filing all the paperwork with the court. I, uh, the paperwork tends to take months to fill out and process, but I’ve been putting off one important thing—”

“Where are you going with this, Bobby?” Dean asks dryly. He picks at the wrapper on his beer bottle, hardly glancing up.

“The Impala. Cas gets the impala,” his uncle spits and Castiel’s stomach drops.

He knew this was coming. He prepared for it, even.

But hearing the words spoken so clearly is a stab to his gut— a wound he won’t heal from, but instead, one that will slowly bleed him out.

If Castiel was feeling nauseous before, he’s definitely going to throw up now.

The room goes silent. 

It poisons the air.

And Castiel can’t breathe.

“What?” Someone rasps, but Cas isn’t sure if it was Dean or himself that spoke.

Sighing, Bobby glances away from the boys’ frozen stares, probably wishing to be anywhere else. Doing anything else. Anything but this.

“You boys get the rest of his estate— granted, there’s not much of it— but John specifically left the car to him. I haven’t transferred the ownership of the car or filed the paperwork with the DMV yet…but I thought I’d tell you all first, so you’re prepared.”

“So…Cas gets the impala?” Sam says, his voice hard to hear despite the silence, but his quiet voice is drowned out by the strangled cry of his brother.

He should have been expecting this, really.

He should have expected Dean to shove the table away from him, grinding its legs across the wooden floor and knocking beer bottles over in the process. 

He shouldn’t have jumped at the sound.

He should have expected Dean to loom over them, his green eyes burning holes through the wall. 

He shouldn’t have closed his own.

And he should have expected Dean to yell, to fight for the one thing of his father’s he has left.

He shouldn’t have prayed for John in that moment.

He wants to hide into himself, but Dean’s voice just yanks him back, keeping him there, raw and dry, as he shouts the things Castiel should have known to expect.

“The _fuck_ he does! Cas doesn’t know shit about my father, he didn’t know him like Sam and I did, so why should he get anything? Who the fuck is he? He just appears randomly and takes everything? That’s bullshit. _This_ is bullshit. How could you do this to us, Bobby?”

And it’s then, as Dean addresses his uncle, Castiel realizes _he_ isn’t apart of this conversation.

This entire fucking problem is his fault.

He’s the reason for Dean’s pain, and John’s betrayal.

But now, he’s not even worth Dean’s acknowledgment.

Not even in a conversation that involves him.

“Son—” Bobby begins, but Castiel cuts him off.

“I’m sorry, Dean. And Sam,” he says, standing at Dean’s level to gain solid ground. “I’m so sorry; you can have the car, you can have anything you wa—”

He glances up, hoping to catch Dean’s gaze, but instead sees the boy’s hand swinging down hard atop his head.

Someone screams Dean’s name.

A glass— probably a beer bottle— shatters from above, cracking and ripping into the skin of his skull.

A hot substance runs down his forehead as he picks a sharp from his sticky black hair.

And the last thing Castiel sees before he runs is green— the green eyes of not only an angry teenager, but a guilt-ridden boy. 


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel shivers on the toilet seat.

Blood still streams in between pieces of glass down his forehead. His ears still ring, almost loud enough to muffle the shouts from the kitchen. And he holds himself tightly— his mind numb and lips quivering. 

A soft padding sounds grows closer to the bathroom door. It’s difficult to hear over the noise, but Castiel forces himself to count them.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven— and finally— a knock.

He doesn’t process it immediately— still stuck in the daze of what just happened. But when Sam’s quiet voice says his name, he glances up to see the door that separates them.

Leaning over, he unlocks the door with trembling fingers and cracks it open to see his friend standing on the other side holding a box.

Sam casts him a concerned glance, and proceeds to come in with the shoebox labeled ‘First Aid’ in messy scrawl. He crouches in front of him, pulling out tweezers and cotton balls from it.

Castiel waits as Sam works on him. He can hear Sam praying and begging apologies under his breath, but Castiel is too exhausted to do anything. He can’t look up. He can’t speak. He can’t tell Sam that it’s okay. That he deserves this. That Sam should have thrown as beer bottle at him too.

“I’m so, so sorry, Cas,” Castiel hears Sam say. “Dean shouldn’t have done that. I should have stopped him. I—”

“Sam,” someone says. Castiel recognizes it as his own but he hadn’t noticed his mouth moving. “Sam.”

His friend glances up at him. But Castiel has nothing left to say. He just doesn’t want to hear Sam apologize anymore.

 

Castiel isn’t sure how much longer they stay, but by the time Sam is done disinfecting and treating his wounds the shouts have long since faded from the kitchen.

The boys slowly make their way down the hall and up the stairs to Castiel’s room. Sam helps him into bed and kneels on the floor, watching Castiel as he lays watching the ceiling. His head still aches from the bottle, but his eyes have dried and his shaking has calmed over time. He can’t see Sam’s face in the dim light and for that he’s thankful. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to ask. “Why?”

“Why?” Sam repeats.

Castiel is too tired to explain, but he hopes Sam understands.

And he does.

“Because, Cas. I know you. Despite what you and Dean seem to think, you’re not a bad person. You’re not the reason why our father was a flake. You’re not the reason he abandoned us.”

Castiel sighs, trying to relieve the pressure building behind his eyes. 

No. 

He is every reason why.

“You’re a good person.”

He’s not.

“I see your guilt, I see your pain. But I want you to know that you are a good person. You don’t deserve this suffering, Cas. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Castiel bites his lip, shaking his head slowly as the tears begin to tumble down his cheeks, burning across his skin. 

Part of him wants to believe Sam is right. Part of him wants to believe he isn’t the reason. 

But seeing the rage on Dean’s face— seeing his pain and suffering— reminds him otherwise.

He closes his eyes.

He forces his mind to go blank. To ignore everything else but the raw throbbing of his skull.

He opens his eyes once more.

And Sam is gone.


End file.
